Inquiring at the Maidstone Arms, East Hampton, Matheson gained another possible lead. Moreno had indeed checked into the hotel. After dining there, he had left and not returned until later in the evening, when he went straight to his room. Early the next morning he left, after settling his account. There had been an incoming call on his arrival and an outgoing call, which Matheson had traced to a local gay club called the Swamp. Since then the club had been sold and was closed for refurbishing.
“Did you find anyone who talked to Moreno that night?” Sylvia asked.
“Not yet. I’ll go back and find who was running the place at the time. There might be someone he spoke to at the club.” Matheson had also talked to Brett Donnelly, a local contractor. He had found Donnelly still at work on Moreno’s property, which had now progressed considerably since de Jersey’s visit. Donnelly was evasive at first, but after Matheson told him he was investigating a fraud, Donnelly became more helpful; he discussed Moreno freely and ventured information about a certain man, Mr. Simmons, who had showed up on-site. “How I figured it,” Matheson said, “this guy, Philip Simmons, was owed cash by Moreno, and they did a deal. Now it looks like Simmons is completely running the show. He’s ordered the renovations to continue, and when the job is done, he told Donnelly he’s selling the property.”
“Do you have a contact number for Simmons?”
“Just a mailbox number. Perhaps when he invoices Simmons, Donnelly will get further information.”
“I hope so. In the meantime, I’ll check if he was an investor. His name’s not familiar, though. Did he say he was English?”
“I didn’t ask.”
“Doesn’t matter.” But Sylvia was disappointed not to have more to go on.
Matheson cleared his throat. “If I’m to keep looking for Moreno, I’m going to need an additional retainer.”
“Do you think he’s just upped and done a runner with my money?”
“Could be. Finding that car abandoned at the airport is suspicious. And I have yet to take a look at Moreno’s apartment. No telling what I might find there. There’s always the possibility one of the investors got to him. You should check if one was called Simmons,” Matheson said.
“Even if it was one of the investors, he might have been using a false name.” Sylvia was starting to get into this detective work.
“True. Are the other investors Brits?”
“The main ones are. There are others scattered all over the world, but their losses were not as great.”
“Well, let me see what I can come up with. If Simmons comes into the U.S., maybe I can track him down. I’ve got a lot of contacts at the airport.”
“Don’t do anything yet. Let me get back to you,” she said.
“Whatever you say—but somebody has just got themselves a fifteen-million-dollar property, maybe as a payoff,” Matheson said.
Sylvia thought for a moment. “Okay. Keep on trying to track down this Simmons man. I’ll discuss your findings with the other main investors and get back to you.”
“You’re the boss. I’ll send on my accounts and carry on the work.”
“Keep in touch.”
Sylvia hung up and dialed de Jersey’s number. The housekeeper informed her that both Mr. and Mrs. de Jersey were in Monte Carlo. Sylvia hung up and called James Wilcox, but he refused to speak to her. She hung up, frustrated, then called Tony Driscoll. At first he was rather short with her, but he became intrigued by her discoveries.
“So this private investigator believes that someone received a nice payoff?”
“Moreno signed over the property, and it was all organized by a business adviser named Philip Simmons. Do you know him?”
“No, I don’t.”
“All I have is a mailbox number for him in New York, and Moreno seems to have disappeared without trace.”
“I see.”
“What I was wondering, Mr. Driscoll, is if we couldn’t, all four of us, pay Matheson’s accounts. You see, if Simmons is taking over Moreno’s property, by rights we should benefit too.”
“Let me think about it,” Driscoll said and promised to get back to her.
A few minutes later he was talking to Wilcox.
“Whatever he’s done, we don’t want to know,” Wilcox snapped. “The less we know the better. But he’s got careless. The stakes are higher for him, and he’s not handling it well.”
“He’s never been violent before.”
“And I hope he’s covered his tracks well, because it’s not going to be too hard to figure out who he is.”
“Yeah. How’re your finances?” Driscoll asked.
“Fucked, but I’m not getting involved in murder.”
“Same here. But we should be careful. You know what he’s like. If he finds out we’ve been talking behind his back—”
“But we haven’t really known him for a long time, Tony,” Wilcox interrupted. “We can’t keep harking back to the old days. A lot of water’s run under the bridge since then. Sometimes I wonder if we ever really knew him at all.”
Wilcox’s words hit a nerve in Driscoll. “We shouldn’t be talking like this.”
There was a pause and then they hung up, as uneasy as they had been before their conversation.
De Jersey had only just got back into bed when Christina returned. She had obviously been shopping again, and a porter was struggling with her purchases.
“How are you feeling, darling?” she whispered and sat on the edge of the bed.
“Not too good. Did you have a happy reunion with your friend?”
“I went to her husband’s little jewelry store. I just looked, but Vibekka was choosing a diamond necklace to wear tonight with matching earrings. It must have been worth at least half a million pounds, but I’d be afraid to wear anything so valuable. She told me she likes to advertise his work! She showed me the most unbelievable Russian tiara. The owner’s grandfather got out of the country with the diamonds sewn into the hem of his coat.”
De Jersey leaned back on the pillows. No wonder Dulay wasn’t interested in working for him—he was hobnobbing with high-society Euro-trash.
Christina yawned. “You are coming tonight, aren’t you?”
“I’m not sure. I still feel as if I have a temperature.”
She touched his head. “No, you don’t. You can’t get out of it either. I decided your old dinner jacket wasn’t smart enough, so I’ve got a new one for you, plus shoes, a shirt, and a tie. You have no excuse, darling.” She gave him a wonderfully seductive smile. “Anyway, I want to show you off. I can’t wait to see her face when you tell them who you are. I didn’t mention the estate or the stud.”
He sighed, as if he was still feeling unwell. Maybe he should rob Dulay’s shop and not bother with the Crown Jewels.
De Jersey admired himself in the full-length mirror. The white tuxedo was a perfect fit, as were the shoes and the shirt. Christina wore a pale pink beaded dress that fishtailed out in a slight train behind her.
“I returned the other dresses and replaced them with this. You know, for a man who was at death’s door only hours ago, you have improved vastly.” She smiled at him in the mirror. They made a handsome couple.
De Jersey’s mood had lifted because Vibekka had called to say that her husband was ill and had taken to his bed. Instead she was bringing Julian, a family friend who owned a restaurant and had shares in their yacht. She suggested they might walk down to the harbor to see the Hortensia Princess.
“What did you tell her about me?” de Jersey asked.
“I could hardly get a word in edgeways. She never stops talking, especially about the yacht. Never even got a chance to tell her your name.”
“Did you tell her I was almost as old as your father?”
“All I said was that you were rich and handsome and I loved you.” She kissed him, then held him at arm’s length. “Because you are the best thing that ever happened to me.”
“Thank you,” he said.
“We’r
e having a glass of champagne in the bar before the car takes us to the palace,” Christina told him.
“You make me feel old,” he whispered.
“You are the reason I stay young,” she said and slipped into his arms to kiss his lips. Then she gently traced his mouth with her little finger to remove signs of her lipstick before she took his hand and drew him toward the door.
He’d forced all thoughts of his financial situation out of his mind, and now he was looking forward to their evening out.
Vibekka approached them with a handsome, swarthy companion. De Jersey kissed her on both cheeks then shook Julian’s hand. Vibekka was wearing a black sequined bias-cut dress that showed off her perfectly toned body. She had a full-length sable coat draped over one arm and clutched a tiny gold lamé purse. They went into the hotel bar, and as de Jersey ordered a bottle of champagne, the two women chatted about fashion shows they had worked on together. De Jersey called over the waiter and chose a small Havana for himself. As he puffed on the cigar, he watched Julian and wondered why he looked so on edge. He gestured toward Vibekka’s diamonds. “They are very beautiful,” he said.
Vibekka paused for breath. She touched the necklace, then drew back her hair to show off the large drop earrings. “Aren’t they gorgeous? And look …” She held out her slender wrist to show off the matching bracelet, two diamond-encrusted bands linked by emeralds in the style of a daisy chain.
“Oh, that is just beautiful,” Christina said.
De Jersey glanced at his wife, who wore only a wedding ring and a thin gold chain with a pear-shaped five-carat diamond. It was simple but had cost fifty-five thousand pounds. The diamond was a yellow stone and had been auctioned at Sotheby’s. It had been his first gift to her after they met.
When they had drunk the champagne, their car arrived.
“I hope you’ve brought a lot of money,” Vibekka whispered to de Jersey. “It’s a charity ball Princess Caroline throws annually. Everyone always feels obliged to buy raffle tickets and bid for silly things in the auction after dinner. It’s all in aid of a children’s charity. In the past a number of guests bought items in the auction and their checks bounced! So now it’s cash only.”
The venue for the ball was the Salle des Étoiles, a vast space with a roof that slid back in summer. There were wondrous views across the bay, and it was often used as a concert hall by stars such as Whitney Houston and Barry White. Tonight, however, the room was a sea of white tables and waiters. Everyone important from the glittering world of Euro-trash was there. At the head table sat Prince Albert, surrounded by an array of models and raffish young men. Wherever the eye fell there were glorious gowns and sparkling jewels, and a high-pitched babble of women greeted each other in various languages.
Among the other guests at their table de Jersey saw, with interest, was Michael Maloney, a well-known British financier who owned twenty-five racehorses stabled in France. De Jersey had met him once fleetingly at an auction. At thirty-eight, he was a City whiz kid turned tax exile. Tonight his companion was a nubile blonde who had already drunk too much champagne and kept falling off the seat next to him. There was also an Italian prince with his fourth wife, an American heiress. Her face-lift made her look about the same age as Christina, but de Jersey thought she was closer to his. She described in amusing detail the extent of her operations and the number of surgeons she had checked out beforehand. Recently she’d had cheek and chin implants and, as she gaily informed everyone, more implants in her lips and a full laser treatment on her skin. While she was totally unconcerned about everyone knowing, her husband cringed with embarrassment.
“If you want the best lip-line lady, you gotta visit this woman in Paris. She is just the best!” She loudly gave the name of her surgeon to Vibekka and passed the card to Christina with a flourish.
Talking to Maloney proved difficult with the tittering blonde demanding his complete attention. Julian hardly spoke a word during dinner and looked impatiently at his watch. De Jersey asked him if he was expecting someone.
“No, I just hate these balls. I don’t drink much, and the smoke gets in my eyes.” He shrugged and turned away.
Two hours later, when it was time for the raffle, the prize giving, and the charity auction, De Jersey excused himself. “I’m going for a breath of air,” he whispered to Christina. “I’m still feeling a bit fuzzy.”
He walked out to the balcony, threading his way through palms and flower beds, and sat on a thickly cushioned chair to look out at the sea. He lit a cigar and watched as the blue smoke drifted into the night air.
A voice startled him. “You mind if I join you?” It was Norma, the American woman, carrying a tumbler of Scotch and her cigarettes.
“Please do,” he said.
“I hate these charity balls. They expect you to throw thousands around, but I leave that to my husband. He’s gay, you know.”
“Really?” de Jersey said, amused.
“I married him for his title, and he married me for my dough. I like being a princess. Here they’re two a penny, but in the States it always gets you the best table!” She gave a throaty laugh and perched beside him. In the soft candlelight she was rather beautiful, her cheek implants giving her a Marlene Dietrich look.
“Your wife is exquisite,” she said.
“I think so too.”
“Nice stone round her neck.” She leaned forward as he lit her cigarette. “Bet that didn’t come from the creepy Paul Dulay. His wife has a lump of Moissanite round her neck.”
He laughed. “I think you’re mistaken.”
“Honey, I have one of the finest collections in the States. I bought up a lot of the Duchess of Windsor’s pieces. Now there was some high-class junk, but with her name attached it retains its value.”
“Are you in the jewelry business?” he inquired.
“Only the business of buying the stuff. I have no other investments. Daddy was a Russian Jew. He arrived in the States with a couple of rubles to his name and opened a hardware store. When Wall Street crashed, he made his fortune because he had hard cash. Lesson in life, that. He was always paranoid that he would lose his fortune, so he invested in things like this.” She lifted her thin, freckled hand with its red-painted nails and withdrew a fine platinum chain from beneath her gown. Attached to it was a pendant with a single, stunning diamond. “Liz Taylor owns one just like it. What do you think?”
“I’m awestruck,” he said softly. “Aren’t you taking a risk wearing it?”
“Nope, I’ve got my protection.” She turned and pointed to a small square-chested man in an ill-fitting evening suit. “He’s never far from me. He’d spring into action if you tried to rip it from my neck.” She opened her top to let the stone drop back between her silicone-enhanced breasts and laughed. “I had them lifted so they could carry the weight of it.” She picked up her tumbler and sipped. “I can spot a fake. Vibekka’s is Moissanite. It might glitter like the real McCoy, but it wouldn’t pass a double refractive test.”
“What’s that?” De Jersey asked.
“Well, honey, when you look at a diamond, tilt it. Look for the light that’s refracted through it, and if it’s a real diamond it’ll shine in one straight line. Now, with a fake or a Moissanite you tilt it and it’s got two lines. It’s something every gem dealer does without thinking. Vibekka is saying to me that this necklace she’s wearing is worth a fortune, so she hands it to me in the ladies’ room!” She laughed. “The bracelet she’s wearing is a nice piece, and real stones—but I’ve never been an emerald woman.” Norma downed her drink and stood up. “She’s working the room trying to sell her husband’s wares. She took that necklace off faster than a whippet the minute I showed some interest, but I won’t be buying it.”
Her bodyguard swayed in her direction.
“Nice talking to you, Edgar,” she said and strolled away, her minder dogging her heels.
De Jersey didn’t care that she had forgotten his name. What she said was swirling around in hi
s brain. Could Dulay still be replacing diamonds with fakes?
De Jersey surprised Christina by insisting they stay to dance, although he didn’t spend much time on the floor with her. He chose instead to partner Norma, listening intently to her as they danced. She was delighted that she amused the handsome man and leaned closer to him. When she started to discuss Paul Dulay, de Jersey listened even more intently.
“Dulay’s the darling of society out here, but I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him. My sister, God rest her soul, was at his Paris store. He tried to sell her a diamond and black pearl ring. That black pearl wasn’t out of any oyster. But he does do beautiful settings, and that wife of his is a pretty little thing. Costs a lot to keep but not as much as that floating gin palace she talked him into buying. Believe you me that thing costs!” Norma didn’t stop to draw breath, and de Jersey didn’t try to halt the flow.
“You got on well with that awful American woman,” Christina said as she cleansed her face.
“She was delightfully crude,” de Jersey said.
“What on earth did you two have so much to talk about?”
“Horses,” he said flippantly.
“She looked like one,” Christina replied testily.
De Jersey washed his face.
“I had to listen to Vibekka for hours. I’d forgotten how self-centered she is. Her guest hardly said a word. Then you danced more than I’ve ever known you to dance before with that raddled old woman.”
“She’s not that old, sweetheart. She’s probably my age.”
“She’s seventy-two!” Christina exclaimed. “What are you laughing at?” she snapped.
“That she’s seventy-two, and if I didn’t know you better, I’d say you were jealous!”
Royal Heist Page 15
